No One Wants to Know You When You're Crashing Down
by arsenickiss221
Summary: When Sherlock went to university he met his two vices: cocaine and Victor Trevor.
1. Prologue

Sherlock never meant to make himself infamous at uni. His survival mechanism, engrained in him from a young age, was to do exactly the opposite. _Make yourself small. Hide. Let no one see you. _Making oneself into a sort of on-campus celebrity broke all those rules and then some. Mycroft would be furious when he found out (and he would, inevitably, find out, the prodding sod). Of course, he didn't really care what the fat bastard thought, or whether he was furious or not, but it would doubtlessly be tedious and largely inconvenient. And to be fair, Mycroft was already righteously pissed off about the instance leading up to the infamy. Probably was too focused on _that _bit to have foreseen the inevitable circulation of the story, and honestly, it would have been so easy to have put his political foot down at the campus newspaper and made sure no one wrote up about the strange eccentric genius who jumped out of a window while tweaked out of his mind.

Honestly, the article was over exaggerating to a large degree. Campus newspapers were worse than celebrity tabloids in that; all the skiving journalist majors trying to one up each other to find the juiciest story. That competition gave way to a lot of sensationalist writing, in Sherlock's opinion.

He hadn't been _tweaked out of his mind_.

He _had_ snorted coke, as he always did when his mind was incapable of focusing and his brain felt like it was shattering into a million small fragments, each piece tangible and interesting enough to take up some of his attention until he was spread so thin he felt like imploding. And yes, he perhaps had done two massive lines as opposed to the moderate intake he was used to. But it hadn't been that bad; he obviously hadn't overdosed. Just decided that his focus would be best turned to testing physics equations about velocity, momentum, and free fall.

Honestly, no one who was _out of their mind_ would have been able to use their drug-addled brain to that capacity. The average gits around him at uni couldn't possibly comprehend the beauty of his cocaine serenity, the tranquility of the stillness it brought to his mind, the peace that kept him from over-loading, shutting down into one of his migrained panics, rocking back and forth on the floor, hitting his head on the wall to give himself any tangible connection to the external world as he internally imploded. No, they didn't understand, not the journalists, nor the doctors, nor the bloody psychologists that had been hounding him ever since. Not even Mycroft, who should empathize more than most seeing as he had grown up with his wirey anomoly of a brother. It was none of their bloody business. They could fucking sod off.

It hadn't been a suicide attempt. It really hadn't.

Fucking twats.

Sherlock lay on his dorm bed, gazing at the ceiling with unveiled fury. A cigarette rested lit in his mouth. He knew this was against building codes, that it was a violation of school policy, but he honestly didn't care. The residence hall had recently pilfered through his things, attempting to find any drugs or paraphernalia to land him with a dealing charge. Thankfully, he had used the last of his stash on _that _night so he'd had none present in his dorm, just a joint hidden with the cigarettes in his slippers for when he needed to sleep despite a cocaine high, and some questionably legal chemicals that he had _honestly _been using for some organic experiments. He hadn't been charged with anything though, which was lucky, and probably due to his ever-present Big Brother's influence. Nonetheless, the experience had made him resentful of the university's unacceptable interference in his life; hence, the unadulterated rule breaking.

(Also, the influx of nicotine through his system helped to stave off the headache from withdrawal. Hadn't had any cocaine in nearly a week and a half, since his time in the hospital had obviously left him with no opportunity and now his actions were no doubt being monitored for future infraction. Not to mention the fractured hip and all over bruising wasn't too comfortable either. His body hurt, his brain hurt, everything hurt, so if his peers were going to complain about the smell of a cigarette and some mildly potent secondhand smoke they could go straight to hell, they knew nothing about being uncomfortable.)

Sherlock's mobile rang on the table next to him. Groaning, he rolled to one side, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth as he did so. He glanced at the screen to check the caller I.D. It was a number he did not recognize, but it wasn't restricted so it couldn't be Mycroft. Sherlock tossed the phone onto his bed, morphing back into his original position. He really couldn't tolerate people right now, not with this massive headache. His self-restraint was severely compromised and he didn't think he had the willpower to reign himself in, to hide, to go unnoticed today. The phone stopped buzzing and Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaling the cigarette smoke with ease.

The phone on the bed rang again, this time muffled by his comforter. Sherlock snatched the phone up again to see he'd received a text… from _Mycroft_. He rolled his eyes, flicking open the flip phone's screen.

**Answer your phone. -M**

_**So it was you, you manipulative prat. Commandeered another person's number to trick me into answering? -SH**_

**Your phone will ring again soon. If you don't pick up you can expect my interference. -M**

_**If you want me to have this information so badly, why don't you just bloody text it to me LIKE YOU'RE DOING NOW. -SH**_

**Just answer the phone. –M**

A moment later, as if on cue, the phone rang out, this time from the same number as before. Sherlock sighed before picking it up, flicking the screen open.

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes I presume. This is Oxford's Counseling and Mental Health Services. We'd like to schedule a mandatory appointment with you. When's your next earliest convenience?"

Sherlock hung up immediately. His phone rang again, this time a restricted number.

"No. Bleeding. Way. In. Hell," Sherlock growled into the phone.

"Mandatory protocol when a suicide attempt has been made, Sherlock, there's nothing I can do," Mycroft intoned on the other line. Sherlock could almost imagine the smug look on his face, the slight condescending tilt of his brother's head as he said those words. "If you don't like any of the counselors on hand at uni, I'd be happy to find one in the nearby area and have my people escort you to and from."

"Don't tell me there's nothing you can do, you know well enough you could do something if you wanted to."

"Well, I think we've gotten to the root of it then. I don't want to do anything about this situation. I think it would be good for you in your present… state."

Sherlock very nearly threw the phone against the wall. He pulled it away from his ear for a second to get himself under control, calm, composed, don the stoic face he so often showed to the world (but he had been right, he had no patience for the farce today, not with this migraine and withdrawal and now the prospect of _seeing a therapist_. No way.)

"Mycroft, I wasn't attempting suicide. I already told you. I was simply testing a physics equation for non-lethal falls from a tall height. Could very well be useful in the future for if I ever do need to successfully fall from a building without dying…"

"Sherlock. If you want to go discuss this and attempt to weasle your way out, I suggest you take it up with the Mental Health Services directly. If they decide you don't have to go, that's perfectly legitimate. However, if you are mandated to attend therapy, and you attempt to get out of it, I will send my people to collect you. This is not negotiable."

With a click, Mycroft hung up, leaving Sherlock righteously infuriated with him, and the school, and just… _it wasn't a bloody suicide attempt._

Sherlock stood, sweeping his charcoal pea coat on in a grand gesture and dropping his cigarette to the floor, leaving a burn mark in the cheap carpet. Fine, if he had to convince some overweight pencil-pushers of his sanity, that was fine. He grabbed some markers on his way out, slamming the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 1

Sherlock began his escapades into street drugs when he was twenty.

He had gotten high before then and had picked up his habit of trashing himself with cigarettes and coffee before he had even reached puberty. Yet none of those instances had ever been on anything bought from a dealer because he'd never had the opportunity to have a good enough relationship with a dealer to buy anything. His peers from school certainly wouldn't sell to that quiet freak who sometimes went ballistic, and there was no one in proximity to the Holmes manor for that to be an option either. So Sherlock had been stuck with home remedies for awhile; taking his mother's Xanax, overdosing on cough syrup. Stupid methods, not even remotely elegant enough to put in a scientific write up, but they worked nonetheless. He had escaped the barreling of his brain for long enough to make the experience worthwhile. And that was the point, wasn't it?

When he'd gotten to uni, though, a whole world of organic recreational compounds had opened up to him.

He hadn't expected cocaine to be his drug of choice, to be honest. He figured an opiate would be the more likely option for quieting a brain. Depressants were supposed to put you into a languid trance, and initially Sherlock had postulated that was what he would want most.

The experience of shooting up hadn't been bad, but the effect of the opiate itself had been. It was just so _boring_. Yes, it made his brain slow just a little, took the edge off of his perpetual anxiety, but Christ, it made _everything _slow down too. No, definitely not for him. When he came down he felt like jumping out of his skin from all the pent-up energy.

Weed had been fine, but not his favorite. Similar effects to the opiate, except on a much smaller level.

And then there was cocaine. The powder that numbed his face and flooded through his system, crashing in his bloodstream, leaving nothing untouched. Stimulants shouldn't have given him focus, that wasn't the way they affected average people, he was sure. Yet Sherlock couldn't help but feel calmed by the cocaine, and not in the passive, slow sense of opiates. Everything was just so much more tangible, easy to think through. He could slow down, follow a conversation, do equations without jumping ahead to the end without doing any of the important middle steps.

Cocaine was his perfect white mistress. It gave him _control, _something he very much lacked.

It hadn't been long before his intake had increased from average, to the almost regularly high, to the I-need-cocaine-to-do-coursework-and-function high. He was fine with this part of himself, to be sure (not addicted, no, not addicted). He wasn't bothered by his dependence on the stimulant, because he'd been dependent on other methods of calm for years without any repercussions. Why should partaking in cocaine be any different? And if anyone noticed anything they didn't say anything. His grades increased and leveled out. He could sometimes tolerate being around other humans (although to say he enjoyed it would be stretching it. Still too dull, too boring to keep his attention for too long). His independent research in the chemistry lab was going swimmingly and he had a paper in pre-publication already.

If that was what came from cocaine use, he didn't quite understand why other people didn't turn to the drug.

(_Because this isn't a normal reaction to stimulants_, the logical part of his brain repeated. _The average human being does not focus after an increase in stimulants. They do quite the opposite._)

It was a relatively simple task hiding his habit from Mycroft. His brother had been checking in on him less and less as his grades and class standing had improved; obviously thought his younger brother was stabilizing and didn't need his control anymore. Sherlock didn't bother worrying about his parents. The only use he had for them was the money their estate kept in his bank account. Other than that he had no use for them and hadn't seen them since coming to uni.

It was just Sherlock and his white mistress.

* * *

><p>Money became an issue within two months. True, Sherlock did have a rather large amount in his bank account, courtesy of his prestigious parents, but he was too brilliant to leave himself a paper trail. As his usage increased, so did the amount of money withdrawn and frequency of withdrawals. Not close to being suspicious yet, but he needed to be careful.<p>

Take out less money, maybe biweekly? He had found himself buying less groceries in the past few weeks, so that money could go towards his disposable income.

Except exam week arrived and Sherlock suddenly found himself without anymore money. What more, his card had been rejected at the pin machine for some unknown reason. Still had access to his account, according to the banker he called, just couldn't withdraw money for some unbeknownst reason.

_Probably Mycroft, _Sherlock sighed. _Probably attempting to force me to come to him for a visit. _He _had _sent him an invitation to his house a few months ago, which Sherlock had ignored more because he had more important things than see his dawdling big brother. No, he wasn't that sentimental, he was a bloody Holmes.

Then withdrawal had happened.

Sherlock had foreseen this, knew the effects of chemical dependence (not that he was addicted, just his body was out of sync now). But mind over matter, he could push through this until the next monetary month, get through this withdrawal thing. It will be good for him, really. A challenge.

There was the headache. The dull, pulsating migraine that slowly built into a skull-shattering pile driver directed to his head. There were the body aches, the shaking, and the nausea. He could deal with these though, his transport was just failing him that was all. It was relatively easy to forget.

It was the hazy clouding of the brain that got to him; the feeling that everything inside his cranium was trapped under a thick blanket of fog. It was _dreadful _for coursework and experiments because he couldn't focus on anything, and not in the sometimes brilliant but dreadfully inefficient and cluttered way he couldn't focus before cocaine. No, now it was more that _he just couldn't think_.

That was not to be tolerated.

It hadn't been too hard to track down Mycroft's London estate. Sherlock had used the mailing address of his last post as a starting point (obviously it had been a fake, but the postal system itself gave telltale signs of where a letter had been sent from regardless of the secrecy attempted).

Two days into withdrawal he found himself knocking on his brother's door despite having not seen him in almost a year.

The look of surprise on Mycroft's face made Sherlock distinctly uncomfortable because it looked way too bloody sentimental. Was that the hint of a smile, the semblance of relief? Yet just as suddenly as it had appeared the human reaction disappeared behind Mycroft's double chin and icy exterior.

For a man only in his late 20's, Mycroft carried himself with the air of a man wise beyond his years. His tailored suit was just slightly oversized, whether to hide the slight weight that he had picked up from his privileged life as a government official or because he had, in fact, lost weight after his suit's fitting.

Sherlock wondered vaguely what he looked like to his brother. Probably atrocious. Malnourished certainly, tired, and perhaps a bit strung out. He tried to hide that behind a lit cigarette. It was dangerous to present himself to Mycroft like this; almost putting himself on a platter wasn't he? It was too easy for his brother to deduce the drugs. However, Sherlock _needed _the money, couldn't handle this withdrawal nonsense, and if Mycroft was going to attempt to stop his drug use, he would find himself very disappointed with that outcome. Nobody could make Sherlock do anything he didn't want to.

"I need money Mycroft," he intoned quickly before his brother could open his mouth, making the objective of his little visit clear from the beginning. He watched for signs of recognition, hints that his brother had indeed been the one to freeze his access to his bank account. Sherlock thought he saw he flicker of familiarity across his face, and maybe the semblance of a sheepish grin, but that all seemed too _human_ for Mycroft. No matter.

"How did you find me?"

This was their relationship. No warm hellos or emotional hugs from two siblings who hadn't seen each other in a year. Just business, work to be done, that was their relationship, wasn't it, all strict formality and brusque practicality? Nothing sentimental in there.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, swiping a stray of dark hair off his face. He noted how Mycroft's glance was taking him in, running over the cigarette, the long sleeved shirt even in the moderate London heat, and the circles under his eyes. _Does he know? _

"Really Mycroft, the return address of your most recent letter was a very good starting point. From there, it was hardly difficult to determine your actual address."

Mycroft nodded before standing back from the door, ushering his younger brother into his home.

"Fair enough. Would you like to come in for tea? How's university going?"

Sherlock bristled at the idea. He needed to remove himself from Mycroft's company as quickly as possible before his drug habit became even more obvious. Sherlock shrunk back from the door, clamping down on the cigarette between his lips.

"I need money, Mycroft."

His brother's posture seemed to sag a bit, even though his face retained its serene contour. Mycroft nodded curtly before quipping back, "Yes, but I hardly see fit to just hand you cash on my porch like you're some delivery boy. If you want the money you'll have to at least come into the foyer."

Sherlock groaned childishly but stepped into the stuffy house. It was _too _reminiscent of the Holmes manor if he were to be frank, all pomp and presentation, lacking any cozy sentimentality. The decorations, although decidedly expensive, were also dreadfully _dull _and boring to look at. Everything was too clean, everything in its proper place (Sherlock wondered offhandedly if his brother cleaned and organized or if he had a maid. Could he risk the possible security breach? Anyways, his brother's OCD was so outrageous he probably would redo anything a maid did anyways. Definitely his own doing then.)

"So, how is university?" Mycroft repeated as he walked over from the door he just closed. Sherlock didn't bother to turn his gaze away from the coat of arms he was studying (what was the code behind these arms, there definitely was some sort of systematic explanation for these bloody things).

"You know how university is going, Myc, don't pretend you haven't been spying."

"Not spying, brother dear. Just keeping a weather eye out for your wellbeing."

Sherlock whirled around to face him. "Needing to know every phone call I make and every plan I have goes far beyond the stretch of _keeping a weather eye out_."

Mycroft grinned pompously. "At least I haven't installed cameras, brother. MI5 can't risk the security breach you being connected to me presents."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The right bastard, trying to hide his prying behind _queen and country_.

"You wouldn't _dare _place cameras in my room."

Mycroft held his ferocious gaze steadily before sharply inhaling. "You came here for a reason, didn't you Sherlock? Money, correct? How much did you want?"

Sherlock paused, calculating. If he asked for too much, that would indicate he needed it for something rather large and important which would make Mycroft suspicious. Might up his spying. Might install his filthy cameras (oh god). Couldn't risk that.

"Two hundred quid."

The bills were in his hand within moments. Sherlock began stalking back towards the door.

"You should really stay for tea, Sherlock, if you're not to busy." Mycroft's version of a protest, still veiled behind his political external and practicality.

"That's the problem, My, far too busy," Sherlock tossed back. Now that he had the money all he could think of was the next time to insufflation. He needed the powder, his white mistress, and now the only thing stopping him was the looming hulk of mass he called a brother.

"Ah, well, perhaps some other time then. I could have me secretary arrange it."

Sherlock nodded vacantly.

"Lay off the cakes, My, you've gained another five."

He was skipping off the porch and down the steps before he heard what sounded like "And you've lost twice that," but he found that he couldn't really care. Mycroft didn't seem to think anything suspicious was going on. Wouldn't have given him the money if he had. Good. All he had to do was find the nearest dealer. He had enough for maybe two grams now, with money to spare for cigarettes until his account was unfrozen. The fat sod would have to do that now that he had visited.

Despite the continuation of withdrawal, Sherlock found a strange sense of happiness welling up inside him. He had money, cigarettes, and soon cocaine. Everything was good.

Two hours later Sherlock was high as a kite and everything was even better.

* * *

><p>Mycroft's secretary did, in fact, try to contact him over the next few weeks, but he doggedly ignored the calls and letters. Couldn't risk seeing his brother now. Exams week, usage had skyrocketed to an astronomical level. He spent most of his time high off his ass, and the rest wishing that he was. Nosebleeds had started occurring at random times. They were inconvenient, but he supposed they were a part of every drug consumer's life.<p>

Not a junkie. Sherlock wasn't an addict.

The high was worth it though. The lucid calm, the tranquil sensation of being _in control _of knowing what would be coming out of his mouth, what he was writing down, the steps of his logic, everything was so tangible with cocaine. He wondered once again how he had gone without it for so long. DXM and Xanax didn't compare. The highs of his youth were comical compared to this beauty.

And if some dark part of his brain kept intoning _slow down, slow down, slow down before it's too late_ it could go straight the fuck to Hell because this was the closest to perfect he'd ever been. The closest to happy. No more highs and lows, no more rapidly fluctuating from one emotion to the next, giving himself emotional whiplash and confusing the hell out of him. No more bouncing in place or tangential thoughts.

Everything was still now.

God, if Sherlock could feel emotions (which he didn't, he's a Holmes, he _doesn't feel_) he would say that he loved his white mistress.

* * *

><p>Mycroft froze his account again.<p>

The fact that his poncy older brother was using government funds to block bank accounts just to force his sibling to come have tea at his place would have been comical if it didn't also righteously piss Sherlock off.

"For God's sakes My, I can't visit. I have a paper in pre-publication, loads of coursework. You can't just hold my money hostage so I come visit you," he shrieked into his phone.

"It's not _your _money Sherlock, and as with all things, it does not come free. I simply want to check in with you every so often, see how things are going."

"_I can't_."

"Well, you'll have to if you want the money. When you're ready, simply contact my secretary and we'll make an appointment for tea." With a click, Mycroft hung up.

Sherlock growled at the phone. _Bloody Mycroft, always sticking his fat nose into everyone's business_. Sherlock couldn't give into him, not this early in the game anyways. He didn't need Mycroft's fucking money. What he did need was more coke because he sure as hell was not putting up with withdrawal again.

Sebastian Moran was an economy student on Sherlock's floor. Sherlock happened to know that he was a lazy ass, who had more of a tendency to party with his troll-like cronies than he did schoolwork. Although this was vastly obnoxious behavior, it did lend itself to be of potential use for Sherlock's plight.

Sherlock knocked on his Seb's door, leaning against the doorframe in an attempt at nonchalance. Sebastian opened it, appearing shocked at the thin lanky boy in the hall.

"What do you want, Holmes?" he asked. His eyes were red and his room hinted at the smell of marijuana. It was a Tuesday night; no doubt he had coursework due tomorrow. _Perfect. _

"Good evening, Sebastian," Sherlock began, donning his clipped, practical tone, the one he used with Mycroft when they were pretending not to care. "I have a business proposition for you."

If Sebastian was taken aback he didn't show it, or maybe he was just too stoned to care. "Right. Well, what is it?"

"I'm in need of some money."

Sebastian smirked. "I thought you came from royalty or something Holmes."

"Hardly."

"Well, how do your money problems involve me?"

"I could do your schoolwork for you if you give me some cash in return."

Sebastian's face lit up yet he attempted to hide it. Couldn't show his interest, give Sherlock the upper hand. Perhaps he would make a good businessman after all.

"Yeah, well, come inside then." The door opened wider and Sherlock stepped in. The room was the same size as his and the smell of weed got stronger as he walked in. There were psychedelic band posters on the wall, a record player in the corner was playing some screechy ambient guitar music. Predictable. Boring.

"So, Holmes, you want to do my coursework. As it so happens, I have a paper on the import and export system of China due tomorrow at two. I haven't a clue where to begin. Complete it for me and I'll give you fifty quid."

Sherlock ran a quick calculation in his head. He wasn't comfortable with economics topics, too dull to keep his attention, but he could ostensibly learn enough about it in the next night to formulate some sort of rudimentary opinions on the system. Glossing over that with some eloquent writing would make an acceptable paper for Sebastian to turn in. Easy. Fifty quid for… ten hours of work? That was unreasonably low, barely enough for the amount of cocaine he would need to actually get around to doing the work.

"Seventy-five," he retorted. Sebastian didn't try to argue, just nodded as if he'd been expecting the raise. Probably had started off at a lower bid to try to get a bargain. The bastard.

"That's fine." Sebastian held out his hand and Sherlock shook it quickly before letting go, shoving his hand back into his pocket. "Here are the textbooks if you need them, and I'd like it by one tomorrow to give me time to hand it in."

Sherlock nodded. This had been easier than he'd thought. He left quickly, rushing to catch the dealer on the first floor before he went to bed.

The paper was done with ease once Sherlock had snorted two moderate lines. No need to sleep when his mistress was flowing through his veins. Only needed to top up twice before the paper was complete, handed to Sebastian by one the next day. Sebastian gave him more coursework to do after the paper received good marks, giving Sherlock enough money to support his habit without crawling back to Mycroft. Easy.

The nose bleeds got worse over the next few weeks. Sherlock was too high to notice the increase.

* * *

><p>Everything was low and had been for days. Everything was low, and dull, and monotone, flat-lining in front of him like a stopped heartbeat. Dead. The cocaine highs weren't as good as they used to be and the brief periods between the highs were lower still.<p>

Things just wouldn't line up, wouldn't focus no matter how much powder he shoved into his nose. His mind just kept rattling on the tracks, his thoughts circling round and round going nowhere, A to B to Z to Q back to A. It was exhausting and distracting and he really didn't need this right now with exams right around the corner, Seb's coursework needed to be complete, and his paper about to be published _goddamn_. He'd done four hits in the last… eight hours? More? He couldn't be sure. All Sherlock knew was that things _weren't getting done _and this was _annoying as hell_.

One more. One more time. The one that puts him in the right place. The one that fills the aching in his chest and the wetness in his eyes (_what the bloody hell, this should not be happening, he was not going to have a fucking panic attack, no way_). He prepares the lines.

A minute later his head is abuzz and the coursework doesn't seem too important at all.

_ The wind blows through the open window of Sherlock's dorm and ripples his hair, tussling his brown curls and causing his eyes to water. He looks down below him, on the placid streets of London oh so many stories below. He looks up above him at the glistening stars overhead (and he appreciates their beauty though he doesn't give a damn about outer space (too nebulous and vast, no tangible logic to grab onto so delete, delete, delete)). He can feel the pulse of resolution and apprehension throughout the city, his city. _

_ Sherlock's always loved London; he thrives on its energy because it matches his. It's unstoppable and quaint, with a combination of new innovation and old commemoration. His insides are thrumming, strumming, humming to a rhythm that he holds like a secret inside his throat. Unstoppable. Yes, he is un-fucking-stoppable. His mind is focused and relaxed and he still can't believe he lived without drugs for as long as he did, or at least the recreational ones. Because there were those ones he had been given before, when he was a child, which he had petulantly refused to take (and his mother had never been able to refuse her darling boy). _

_ Ritalin, Lithium, Adderall, Xanax, the labels of the bottles broadcasting subtly to the world the labels of the medicated, what diagnosis some beer-bellied child physician had administered. They didn't understand, never tried to, so he scathingly refused assistance because noncompliance was so much easier than explaining. _

_ (And the floorboards of his Mind Palace, where he shoves all those dull sentiments and thoughts out of the way, are creaking now, he can sense it. Turbulence in the flight of his high, memories attempting to escape. Lock down, shut down, delete delete delete.)_

_ Sherlock needs more, this isn't cutting it tonight. Too much commotion, dissonance, the hum inside is taking a dark turn. He's remembering and he doesn't want to, because remembering makes him human and he is so much more than that—he's un-fucking-stoppable. _

_ Sherlock just used the last of his stash, and the dregs of his last hit are pumping in his veins, inflating his mind and he looks to the sky above, up, up, up. He looks down below, his mind spinning and churning, the turbines working overtime because when he works there's The Focus and The Focus blocks out everything else (and he can remember when he first tells the doctors that, and they labeled it hyperfocus, a symptom of a larger problem, and they prescribed him a bottle with another label (NO, delete delete delete!) and his mother is happy because maybe he will get better (was this after the incident on the roof… (DELETE DELETE DELETE)) or maybe she's happy because if he's treated he won't end up like her other one (DELETE DELETE DELETE DELETE!))._

_ His mind is calculating angles and velocities, trajectories and altitudes, and he has the sudden urge, no _need, _to jump. If his math and physics are correct, he should be able to survive if he falls at the right angle with the right initial momentum. He's a few stories up, but if he hits that ledge just right, using the momentum to push off to that flagpole he should be able to drop down without a scratch. Which he will be able to do of course. Because he's un-fucking-stoppable. _

_ Sherlock swings his legs over the edge of his windowsill and pulls himself up, grasping onto the window frame. The wind becomes louder in his ears. He pinpoints his angle and takeoff velocity quickly in his brain and takes a breath. Everything is still in that moment, he remarks, like the great moment between a patient's final inhalation and exhalation, the last work done by the lungs before they are of no more use. The hallways of his mind are so quiet his breath echoes throughout—there are no clawing sounds or scuttling noises. The city below him pauses, matching silence with silence. Sherlock feels a sloppy grin grace his face; it's _his _city. It's all his because he wants it to be. And he's unstoppable. _

_ Suddenly, the thrumming, strumming, and humming inside starts to crescendo, the buzzing inside his veins and body causing him to tremble, not out of fear, but rather _excitement_. The energy of his body cuts through the silence and Sherlock knows it's time. He has to go. He runs through his calculations on more time and jumps._

* * *

><p>Ambulance sirens wailing, bright lights overhead, ragged breathing (was that his own?) and a voice.<p>

"Brother, what on Earth have you been up to recently?"

* * *

><p>The room thrummed with hushed noise—it was the kind of noise that was all the more irritating because it was quiet, because you weren't supposed to hear it and yet it was always there and always noticeable. The low hum of the heart monitor, the whirring of the circuits in his bed, even the lights seemed to be emitting a low, throbbing pulse. It was too much.<p>

Sounds were the first sensation Sherlock began cognitively processing when he at last awoke. Only after that did he feel any visual stimulus, such as the overbearing glare of the lights as they bounced off his closed eyelids, or the gleaming white ceiling marred by minute imperfections that he was met with when he opened them. He didn't feel anything though; his sense of touch was remarkably stunted. Examining the array of wiring, piping and bags around and in his body he supposed it was because of a morphine drip. How absolutely dull, this lack of sensation. He hated opiates.

Sherlock had quickly deduced his situation the moment he had reentered consciousness. He was in a hospital, the last action he could remember was that he had jumped off of a building. Additionally, he recalled the lilting tone of his brother and the sound of an ambulance purring. Sherlock had obviously not hit the ground in the controlled manner he had planned on, leading him to be in the hospital under his brother's careful eye and, most likely, monetary contributions. Hardly a difficult deduction.

Sherlock was accustomed to hospitals. For one thing, he spent a considerable amount of his time doing clinical studies and lab research that was associated with the medical field. Additionally, there were those many times when he was a child that he had frequented hospitals for more… personal matters. Needless to say, men in white coats were hardly new material to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock lay back on the stiff plastic pillows of his metal bed. Evidence showed that soon Mycroft would be entering the room, presumably to check on him. Now that he was awake this would likely involve conversation. Sherlock still remembered what his brother had said to him on their ambulance ride over.

_"Brother, what on Earth have you been up to recently?"_

Of course, the question had been a rhetoric one. Mycroft Holmes had undoubtedly already deduced what Sherlock had been up to recently. And if he hadn't done that just from one look at his brother in the ambulance, a visit to his dorm room would no doubt have given the older Holmes all the information he needed.

Some time later, Mycroft made his entrance. He immediately fixed Sherlock with a piercing gaze. Sherlock, however, flippantly rolled his eyes and turned to gaze out the window. Cloudy, he noted, and rather bleak. He quickly deleted this information as it was really of no use to him (and actually could potentially be quite a hindrance, as research shows that mood is typically depressed by outside environmental cues such as glum weather).

"Brother dear," Mycroft stated. Sherlock did not reply, instead focusing his attention on the thin cracks in the wall of his room. He tried to memorize the pattern—might be an interesting addition to his Mind Palace.

"Sherlock, it has come to my attention that you have been, how shall I put this, _dabbling _in illicit substances."

The words penetrated into Sherlock's consciousness despite his attempt to block them out, mainly due to the use of his name. Classic "cocktail party effect", a tool his family used on him to try to garner his attention. His brain could never help but give some consideration to them when his name was being used, no matter how he tried to train it to stop.

"Sherlock, I hope you can see that this course of action is ultimately unacceptable. Now that it has come to light, it cannot be allowed to continue. I'm sure you understand why."

_No. _They couldn't take away his solution. Sherlock looked at his older brother then, his head whipping around to meet his stare, the action erratic and dangerous, instantly reflecting the primal rejection he felt for that notion. Sherlock caught himself and struggled to regain a composed, objective exterior before he answered.

"I really don't see what for, Mycroft. Never been better."

Mycroft made a noise that was somewhere between a snigger and a laugh, the inflection of the noise bouncing from high to low, indicating condescension.

"Brother mine, _you jumped off a roof._"

"Yes, Mycroft, I've always had a knack for jumping off of roofs, as I'm sure you'll recall from our youth. You can hardly blame that on drugs."

Mycroft fixed Sherlock with that hard stare again, all false impression of nonchalance vanishing from his eyes. Sherlock knew that making light of _those _particular previous circumstances was not in particularly good taste. But good taste be damned, he did have a certain pattern.

"Sherlock, how many more roofs do you plan on jumping off of? What do we say about fate? The universe is hardly so careless. Sooner or later your little habit will not end with you waking up in a hospital. It will end in a grave marker."

Sherlock shrugged, more because he didn't know how to respond to that. He wasn't even sure if he would particularly care if that were the result. Or maybe that was just because his world was still being blurred and dulled by the morphine drip.

"Brother, as much as your death would be a sharp relief for me and my own well being, in regards to yours it's a rather bad deal, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock didn't even shrug this time, just sat there staring impassively at the wall.

Mycroft sighed heavily, the sound escaping from his lungs giving credence to how remarkably exhausting this whole ordeal was for him. Mycroft Holmes, government official and proper genius, known for being cold and shrewd, was worried for his younger brother. He had made an oath to himself after the other one, an oath to keep his remaining family whole and safe to the best of his ability. It was the least he could do, considering. Mycroft was resolved to keep this promise, the only one he'd ever made, but it had grown taxing. He stared at the floor for a second before stepping closer to his brother's bed.

"Mummy knows, Sherlock. Not about the cocaine, but about you jumping off the roof. It upsets her, you know."

Sherlock ruffled slightly in his bed, his eyes twitching slightly as if he meant to look at Mycroft before they relaxed once more into a forced lazy expression.

"I don't see what for. It was just an experiment. I wanted to prove that my physics calculations were correct. I deduced that if I leapt off the window at exactly 30.8 meters per second of velocity, using the momentum to…"

"So you jumping out a window was a science experiment, not a suicide attempt."

A brisk nod, as edged as possible considering Sherlock was in a neck brace.

"And what were the drugs then?"

"Experiment."

"They can't continue."

Sherlock's countenance changed in an instant. He snapped his head to Mycroft, his eyes narrowed, his face contorted into a look of pure rage. His breathing became shallower, the muscles under his pale, thin skin shook. Mycroft regarded his brother as Sherlock struggled to gain composure enough to form the single word, ""You can't force me to stop."

The blunt answer pierced through the stiff silence that had been mounting between them. Mycroft tapped his toes with the tip of the umbrella he was holding unceremoniously in his hand, giving the tension a moment to slightly dissipate before proceeding.

Sherlock's eyes flashed, the emotion behind them startling. "I am fine Mycroft, go tell that to Mummy, as soon as you have your much desired cigarette, your eyes are squinted slightly, hand trembling, tapping specifically your forefinger against your leg as if ashing. That is if you even told Mummy I'm in hospital, your eyes looked down when you mentioned her potentially indicating deceit. You're slipping Mycroft, can't cover up like you used to. I would cross check but I haven't got the patience, nor the mental capacity, possibly because I have a concussion, most likely because of this fucking morphine drip. And goddamn this morphine is making everything so flat!"

Sherlock had worked himself into a frenzy, his speech speeding up with every uttered syllable until the words blended together into a deductive haze. He reached over and tugged at the morphine drips attached to his body, his movement jerky and sporadic. Mycroft could hear the doctors outside scuttling, preparing to come in and likely sedate their petulant patient. _Oh Sherlock, always the unruly child, _Mycroft thought.

Sherlock continued tearing at the tubes attached to his body as he shouted, "Dull, this is DULL! DULL!"

Mycroft left then. There was really no point in staying. Mycroft had seen this scene play out many times throughout their childhood—the outbursts, the anger, the destructive tendencies and the sudden crashes. Nobody could get through to him when he was in this state. It was best to let the doctor's sedate Sherlock and come back at another time.

Mycroft met his assistant outside Sherlock's door as the doctors and nurses began rushing in. He could still hear his brother's screams and the sounds of him thrashing about. They were soon mixed with shouts from the doctors and the telltale signs of a struggle. Mycroft sighed heavily and turned to his assistant.

"I suppose we should begin keeping an eye on him, Rachel. He can't be trusted to make decisions on his own. Always the child." He said this last sentence meditatively, almost to himself.

"Yes sir," Rachel replied.

Mycroft looked over at her, nodded, and began walking leisurely down the hallway of the hospital, exiting the way he had come. He supposed he should call mother to let her know Sherlock was in hospital. He had never actually told their Mummy, hadn't spoken to his family in ages; he was his brother's primary medical contact.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was being torn apart from the inside out, the caustic energy building up inside of him threatened to erupt at any moment, held in check only by that hateful morphine drip and the placid impassivity it brought with it. Even with the drug, Sherlock's mind still flew at an accelerated rate even though his body couldn't follow. After his last little outburst the doctors had tied restraints around him. He now spent hours trying to decipher how best to rid himself of their restriction, but as of yet could not come to a conclusion. Mainly because he couldn't focus on anything substantial externally for too long before his brain whirred past it, already connecting his exterior signals and cues with some other seemingly random fact or memory. The red line that connected the two was thin and almost transparent but still undeniably there, allowing his brain to leap from one thing to the next in a train of thought that made complete sense to him, but to any outsider would seem nonsensical at best. He was a toy car that would spin its wheels frantically when the go button was pressed but could not find the traction to go anywhere. And Sherlock's go button was constantly pushed.<p>

It had been a week now, a week of being tied to an uncomfortable plastic mattress in an uncomfortable room full of distracting noises, overwhelming lights, and dull dull DULL doctors and nurses continuously bustling about him. The only remotely interesting bit was when he had been interrogated by a rather disgruntled policeman and a social worker from the university about why he jumped out a window.

It was only interesting because he had been able to mentally toy with them, using his intellect to entice and enthrall them, made them bend closer to examine what could possibly be inside the brain of the funny young man in front of them before he tore them apart with that same intelligence.

The police officer was currently on the mend from an amphetamine addiction, drugs he had obtained through multiple busts (slight increase in average body temperature, indicated when they had shaken hands, overly tired, drop in weight, and that _hunger _in his eyes, and Sherlock knew that hunger oh so well) and signs of recent marital problems (noticeable body aches in the neck, knees, and back from sleeping on the couch, clothes rumpled and bordering on dirty, hadn't been home enough for the wife to do the laundry, noticeable twisting of wedding ring around his finger).

The social worker had recently had an abortion, not of her own choice but at the pushing of her significant other (clear symptoms of depression as well as an abusive relationship, recent rapid weight gain and weight loss, discomfort at being in a clinical setting).

Sherlock did not have difficulty using these tidbits of information against them, throwing up barriers and destroying connections with each scathing remark and biting comment. The pair had left quickly, rattled to the core, and he hoped his attack would keep them away, that they would just leave him alone and leave their bureaucratic shit out of his life. He already had enough bureaucracy coming from Mycroft, he really did not need anymore.

Mycroft came to visit him a few more times.

"I will be cutting off your monthly stipend, Sherlock," Mycroft announced. "I will be paying for your tuition, fees, meals, et cetera, but you will have no disposable income. I will meet with you on a biweekly basis to check in on your health."

Sherlock almost smirked at that. Hadn't Mycroft realized that he didn't need the family money anymore. If he kept selling his brain and time to Sebastian he would have more than enough money to sustain his habit. Really, Mycroft was slipping. This wouldn't hold him back at all.

"I will also be installing cameras into your dorm room to monitor your activities."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open at that. _The fucking… the stupid… absolutely no bleeding way was his brother going to have access to twenty four hour coverage of him. _

"No," he snarled. "Absolutely not."

"You've forced my hand on this, Sherlock."

"I've forced your… forced your _fucking_… _this is not what people do, Mycroft_."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

If Sherlock weren't restrained, he would have strangled the whale. His heart was pounding in his chest, restriction of his airways, he could feel himself getting lightheaded. _God, no, no, no, not an anxiety attack, not here, not now._

"People don't put their brothers under constant surveillance by the country's bleeding intelligence agency just because they experiment with drugs."

Mycroft regarded him silently for a moment looking as if he were about to say something. Finally he leaned back, adjusting his suit front, before fixing Sherlock with an intent stare.

"Why did you start this experiment?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The morphine pumping in his veins might be making him groggy, but he still wasn't high enough to divulge all his personal secrets to Mycroft. Not nearly. He wasn't even sure if there was an instance where he'd be high enough to tell Mycroft about _those… sentiments. _God, no.

"Can't keep tabs on everything, then, Mycroft? Does it upset you to not know something? You were slow on the pick up. Took months for the drugs to come out, and you wouldn't have known if my window experiment hadn't worked out." Sherlock was taunting his older brother to be sure, reverting back to their childish games. But he felt like a child now, strapped to a hospital bed in a thin gown while his meddling brother determined the rest of his life for him, put him under maximum MI5 surveillance. He had no control except over his petty actions.

Mycroft didn't take the bait. "You will be released from hospital and reinstalled into your dormitory tomorrow. It has already been searched by the campus police for drugs and paraphernalia so you have no more substance left on those premises. Tonight my people will be installing cameras. Do not try to remove them." Mycroft fixed him with a stare before turning to go. "I have no misconception that you will not be resuming this bad habit once you are released. However, know this. If any of my people get indication of you using, you can expect my interference in some capacity."

With that, Mycroft Holmes left.

Sherlock was released from hospital the next day. Mycroft's assistant Rachel gave him a ride back to university, dropping him off at his dormitory before slyly pulling up the floorboards of his room to check once more that he was clean. Sherlock was left standing in the near empty room, staring at the space in the floor where his salvation used to be. If he was honest with himself he would say that he _felt_ then; he felt isolated, nervous, angry, and pathetic for feeling all those things in the first place, the self-resentment for his lack of ability to completely remove himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Victor watched from afar as a scrawny, dark-haired boy scrawled in dry erase marker an almost unintelligible and certainly incomprehensible equation onto the windows of the Student Health Services building, muttering extremely creative swears under his breath. Victor sat on a park bench a little ways off, smoking silkily on his cigarette, watching the apparent madman in front of him. He noted how he mopped his black curls back from his head after each line of equation was complete, how his scrawny frame seemed to rock with a rhythm that the rest of the world was not attuned to as he feverishly wrote, and how a few track marks were clearly noticeable on the genius' forearm as he rolled his sleeves back.

Interesting… certainly interesting…

As Victor took the last hit of his cigarette he stood and smashed the dying embers beneath his heel as he moved forward.

"What are you doing?"

The black curls whipped around as pale blue eyes collided with Victor's own metallic hues.

"I'm writing an equation," he mumbled, turning back to his work before he lost track of where he was in his calculations. If the boy beside him was truly interested, he could wait a minute.

"Why do you want the Student Health Services to see this specific equation?"

Sherlock glanced sideways, keeping his intonation clipped as he replied, "And why do you think I would want SHS to see this?"

"You're writing the equation backwards so that it will be readable only from the inside of the building. It wasn't hard to guess."

Sherlock scoffed slightly under his breath as he continued scrawling.

The blonde boy beside him held out his hand. "Victor. Victor Trevor."

Sherlock turned to look at the boy, fixing him with his intense, destructive stare, the look that let others know he was breaking them apart bit by bit, analyzing what was hidden underneath, and then cataloguing the information and rebuilding. Sherlock glossed over the feral smile, the sharp cheekbones, the frayed leather jacket and the expensive combat boots, his focus zeroing in on that look in Victor's eyes, that hunger, that desire, that craving rippling underneath the smooth exterior that was broadcast to the world.

Sherlock could see danger written in every arch and curve of Victor's body, in his taut skin and jagged cheekbones, in the pinpricks on his arm and the bruises on his neck.

And for this, and only this reason, Sherlock resisted the urge to spew his normal scathing comment, bit back his reflex to hurl acidic rejection and alienating deduction at this newcomer. He took the hand carefully.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"You're the bloke who jumped out of the window!" Victor laughed, shaking Sherlock's hand warmly. "I read about it in the campus paper," he said in response to the look Sherlock gave him.

"I wasn't aware we had a campus paper," Sherlock lied.

Victor cocked an eyebrow. "You aren't missing out on much. The only interesting bits are the police reports and the occasional story about a Chemistry major jumping out of a building and surviving."

"I didn't jump out of a window. I had calculated a controlled fall, following the laws of simple physics, taking into consideration wind, gravity, etc. and knew that if I leapt off at a precise velocity and initial angle, I would have fallen safely. I was testing experimental data."

"Is that the equation you used then?" Victor asked, indicating the scrawl on the Student Health Services window.

Sherlock looked at the equation, uncapping his marker as he prepared to continue. "Yes. If Student Health Services sees that I actually was testing an experimental calculation then they won't keep hounding me with their mental health screens and psychotherapy."

Victor smirked, the side of his face twisting into a cat-like grin. "Mate, I don't think that writing illegible mathematics on the windows of a university funded institution will prove to them that you don't need mental health attention. It might do just the opposite."

Sherlock found his mouth quirking up in a grin despite himself. The comment hadn't really been funny, so he wasn't quite sure why he had reacted with a smile. He looked over at Victor who was busy pulling a package of cigarettes out of the pocket of his black coat. Victor looked up at him.

"Care for a fag?"

Sherlock nodded, accepting the cigarette and lighting it off the lighter Victor held forward. He took a long drag, letting the smoke infiltrate every internal crevice, before cocking his head upwards and exhaling slowly. It was glorious. Victor blew out next to him, the cigarette tipped jauntily in between his fingers whereas Sherlock had his viced in his grip.

"Did your equation work?"

"Sorry?"

Victor let out more smoke before asking again. "Your equation, did it work?"

Sherlock gave him a hard look before allowing the right side of his mouth to move slightly upwards, flexing his zygomatic major, tightening the orbicularis oculi; pars orbitalis. All indications of a genuine smile. Interesting…

"I'm alive aren't I?"

The laugh the blonde boy created made Sherlock's zygomatic major flex even more, which both puzzled him and intrigued him. He studied the blonde boy who stood next to him, smoking. The deductions he could make of his character were countless. He could practically taste the binge drinking, smell the prostitute's perfume, feel the rush of snorting some blow, and hear the roar of an engine speeding down closed London streets as he watched Victor; the signs were that obvious. He was edgy, certainly, but edgy with just a hint of a softness underneath. The frumpy sweater underneath the leather studded jacket. Sherlock knew it was there, but there was no actual external evidence for that claim, no data from this exterior. It was frustrating and puzzling and Sherlock wanted to go deeper. He wanted to root through this young man, take him apart and piece him back together just so he would know how the whole entity worked.

Victor finished his cigarette and stamped it out, leaving the dying ember on the sidewalk.

"Well, I have to go mate. I have to pick up something from a friend."

Cocaine. Sherlock knew it, not only due to deductions but because some base part of him thrummed with the knowledge that this blonde would soon be in possession of the thing he wanted most right now. He turned back to the window quickly, nodding, hoping the other boy hadn't noticed some animal desire on his face.

"But hey, I'll catch you later, alright?"

With that, the blonde stalked off, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it as he did so. Sherlock watched him go out of the corner of his eye, noting the way his long fingers tapped the ash off his fag, how he favored his right side, but was a dominant lefty (likely due to drag racing).

Victor Trevor. He resorted to _not _forgetting his name instantly. Sherlock turned back to his equation.

* * *

><p>Victor was getting bored, which was in itself interesting because the nearby city of London was anything but boring. There were drag races and drugs, brothels and bars; the underbelly of London roared with a caustic life that both attracted and repelled. It was what had drawn Victor here in the first place, and now that same energy was driving him away, like a sudden switch in the magnetic field.<p>

There were only so many adrenaline filled races, near-death experiences, and hazy, drug-induced hallucinations one could take before a break was needed.

Except Victor Trevor still needed something to occupy his time, needed an outlet, another partner in his constant dance with danger. Victor was an addict, an addict to adventure. It was that metallic taste as you bite your tongue in horror and thrill, the snap as your senses instantaneously align in an attempt to save your life that he desired more than any drug though.

Victor stalked down the street, pulling another cigarette out of his pocket. He hadn't realized that he'd started chain-smoking until a week or so after it happened. It was just his nature, he supposed. Give anything addictive to Victor Trevor and he could easily hook himself on it. Of course, he also knew he could stop at anytime. That was the beauty of his danger; he only indulged in it because he loved it, not because he needed it. That was the difference.

It didn't take long for him to reach Bruce's apartment. Why the burly dealer had decided to take an apartment outside of central London rather than within was lost on Victor, but he was a family friend and happened to also have some good blow.

Victor knocked on the door, tossing his dying ember onto the ground as he did. The door opened to reveal a muscular man in his mid-twenties. Cropped brown hair covered narrow, distrustful brown eyes. Upon seeing Victor though, he shoved the door open some more, his tanned face morphing into an easy smile.

"Hey Vic."

"Hey Bruce, mind if I come in for a tick?"

"Not at all, not at all."

The door opened wider and Victor stepped into the main hall of the shady apartment. It was dark, but neat, each cabinet organized and nothing out of place. There were two kinds of drugs dealers, Victor thought. One was the messy kind, the haphazard ones who were really just junkies themselves and looking to turn a profit off their respected chemicals. Those were the ones who tended to get caught out most. The other ones were the respectable ones, the guys with cool heads who kept things running as smoothly as any other business. Their houses were neat so they'd notice if anything was taken or missing. They never did business while high. Some even went so far as to make coded records of any large transactions. Victor liked these dealers the most.

"I saw your dad a few days ago, mate," Bruce was saying as he walked over to the kitchen cabinet by the refrigerator. Victor grimaced in spite of himself at the mention of the man. He spun around to hide it, pretending to investigate a picture hanging on the wall.

"Oh yeah," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "What'd he say?"

"It was just business, so nothing you'd find interesting."

_Then why mention him at all? _Victor thought. Everyone knew his relationship with his father was strained at best. But he supposed he couldn't blame Bruce for trying to strike up a friendly conversation, even from such an unfriendly topic.

Victor turned back to find the dealer unlocking a safe in the back of the cabinet. He pulled out a small bag of white powder.

"This is the stuff you're looking for, I'm assuming?"

Victor nodded his affirmation, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "It's almost the weekend, I've got to prepare myself."

"You're one crazy partier, eh?"

"Just enjoy a good time. You could join if you want. Gloria might be coming."

Bruce shrugged, appearing nonchalant, even though his eyes lit up a bit at the name. "Maybe I'll see if I can spring some free time, but weekends are a big deal for my business, you know?"

"Alright mate," Victor pulled some bills out of his pocket and slapped them into Bruce's hand as he shook it. "Catch you later."

A few minutes later he was back on the streets, heading back to his room. He still had some essay to write about the bullshit philosophies of Plato's Republic and whether he was describing a utopia and dystopia. Utterly dull topic, really, but he needed to pass this class. He was sure some of his stash could help him get through this.

As he walked by the Oxford school center he caught a brief glimpse of familiar dark curls and cigarette smoke. Grinning to himself, Victor pulled his jacket around himself and briskly walked on. He was bored, yes, but he had a suspicion that befriending Sherlock Holmes would get rid of that.

* * *

><p>If Sherlock had thought he knew what withdrawal was like before, he now realized he had sorely underestimated its malicious nature.<p>

The world just wouldn't seem to line up, thoughts didn't connect at all, his brain felt like it was going rancid from the inside out, fouling up on the repetitious thought of _need more need more need more_. The only things that distracted him from this line of thinking was the horrendous nausea and body splitting aches and pains that would periodically throw him off guard as they split through his body.

It was pure agony.

Sherlock lay on his bed, the pillow shoved over his face to block out any light because he knew the stimuli would give him a worse migraine than the one he already had and he sure as hell did not need that at the moment.

He knew he wasn't going to follow Mycroft's heinous request that he remain sober. He wasn't even sure that was a possible option at this point in The Game. However, Mycroft had cameras somewhere in his room, probably in enough locations to make the possibility of blind spots out of the question. Since his room was where he had usually insufflated the cocaine, he wasn't entirely sure where else he could go without Mycroft finding out. Of course, he could go in the parks or in some seedy alley, but he wanted to avoid that if at all possible. He wasn't desperate enough to take to the _streets_ like some groveling addict. No, no, Sherlock would just have to think of another option.

He growled in pain as another spike felt like it was being shoved into his brain. Curling up into a ball, he balled the comforter beneath him between two fists and shoved his face into the mattress.

_Fucking withdrawal_.

He needed cocaine.

Well, first things first, he still needed to get some money, and with Sebastian being his only source of income that meant he'd actually have to get around to doing the work Seb had given him. Sherlock hadn't had much patience to do anything over the past few days due to the constant nagging of withdrawal. However, the symptoms just seemed to be escalating more than dwindling down, and since obtaining money would lend itself directly to getting the solution to this problem, cocaine, Sherlock supposed he'd have to buckle through this.

He _almost _wished he had the stillness of morphine to take this away.

Almost, but not quite.

Sherlock stood and wrapped his peacoat around him, bagging up textbooks in a hurry. He needed to get Seb's coursework done as fast as possible. That was the only solution to this. He thrust his backpack over his shoulder and scrambled out the door.

Half an hour later Sherlock was buried into the utterly _dull _topic of cigarette taxes and whether they reduced demand properly. God, this topic was not only boring as hell but also made his throat itch in the back, indicating that he needed a smoke soon or all hell would certainly break lose. Sebastian couldn't have picked a worse fucking topic for his term paper, probably chose it just to fuck with the genius who did his work for him, the prick.

Sherlock balled his hands into his hair and buried his face in his arms dramatically as he was subjected to another tremor through his body. _When would this stop_? He couldn't work like this, couldn't even complete this obscenely trivial economics paper with withdrawal in the way. Mycroft could go right the fuck to Hell for putting him in this position.

"Y'okay mate?" a familiar voice asked behind his shoulder.

Sherlock startled, as he turned to see Victor Trevor behind him, a Cheshire-like grin on his pale face. Sherlock wiped the look of surprise off his face, and then combed through his hair with his previously clenched fists.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he grumbled. He made to turn back to his work, wasn't really sure what else he was supposed to say, but Victor grabbed his shoulder suddenly. Normally, Sherlock would have balked at the sudden touch, but found that he didn't draw away. _Okay…_

Victor bent down and glanced at Sherlock's features. "You've got the agonies, haven't you? Yeah… I can tell. Haven't gotten your fix in awhile, eh? Calm down," Victor replied in response to Sherlock's petrified look. "I doubt anyone else would be able to notice. Just been there before myself so I know what to look for."

Sherlock broke away from the young blonde's touch, attempting to turn back to his… Seb's… coursework. He was sick of everyone treating him like some goddamn addict. Ever since that campus paper had come out he'd been subjected to more pitying looks and sideways glances than he knew how to deal with, and now some rather attractive blonde was sympathizing with his withdrawal. No way was he going to deal with this.

"I've got some aspirin for you, if you need. I'm studying in the corner, you're welcome to join."

Sherlock turned back to hurl some insult, tell him he didn't need any help, get this pale boy away from him, but when he looked straight into Victor's face he noticed something was wrong. His pupils were _massive_. They seemed to take up almost the entirety of his eyes, the metallic grey of his normal hues were blacked out.

Of course, Victor had picked up some cocaine today, Sherlock knew that, so he must be high now. Needed to do some coursework and needed a pick me up…

_Aspirin_… _aspirin… _

Something clicked within Sherlock as he realized exactly what the boy was offering and he found himself standing and collecting his things before he had mentally processed the reaction. Victor grinned, leaning his weight onto Sherlock's chair as the raven-haired youth stumbled around collecting his things, practically bouncing with excitement.

Victor led him silently over to a small enclave in the back of the library floor. It was walled in on two sides with just enough room for a couple people inside and was out of sight of everyone who wasn't standing directly parallel to the opening. Sherlock sat in one of the chairs, watching interestedly as Victor pulled a small bag of powder out of his coat pocket, tapping some out onto his dorm key, making sure not to spill any. He gingerly pushed the key towards Sherlock, the grin on his face growing all the while.

Upon picking up the powder, Sherlock felt a tingle throughout his body like something in the universe was lining up correctly for the first time in _days_. He quickly snorted the coke, sighing contentedly at the sudden storm in his capillaries, at the warmth and serenity pumping throughout his body. He closed his eyes as his body equilibrated, reaching homeostasis. Upon opening his eyes, Sherlock was met with a smirk from his blonde partner in illicit activities.

"It's good, isn't it, getting what you want after so long without?"

Sherlock paused, before nodding his assent. He didn't have anything to say about that, but agreed with it entirely. He finally felt _right_. And Mycroft couldn't find out about his consumption in the library, there were no cameras or agents watching him. Sherlock looked across the table at Victor, feeling his face twist into a grin. God, he felt _good_.

"I feel as though I've reached homeostasis once more."

Victor laughed softly, the look on his face both amused and confused. "I don't know what that means, Sherlock, but I'm going to assume you're fine."

"Better than fine, actually."

"That's all I could ask for."

Victor turned back to the paper he was writing, grabbing Plato's _Republic _from where he had left it face down on the desk. He began flipping through the pages, obviously about to go back to work. "I've got this paper on whether Plato described dystopia or utopia due tomorrow at nine. Heinous subject, but it's got to be done. What're you doing?"

"Sebastian Moran's economics term paper on the taxation of cigarettes."

"Need the cash?"

"My brother cut me off and I need money to sustain the habit."

Sherlock didn't quite know why he was opening up to this other boy. He had never talked frankly about his drug use with anyone let alone some vagabond boy he'd barely met today. Didn't know anything about him despite the topic of his term paper, his name, and the deductions of dangerous activities (which were entirely accurate, he realized, as he'd just snorted cocaine in a _library_). However, there was something easy-going about Victor's nature that made Sherlock feel comfortable. He knew Victor wouldn't judge his actions like everyone else, and maybe even would understand, more than anyone on campus, the social workers, and especially more than _bleeding Mycroft_.

Victor nodded, glancing up from his book. "Been there."

"How'd you get the cash?"

Victor shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Despite this, Sherlock noted a flash in his eyes and the whisper of a hard grimace. "Won money at drag racing mostly. Did some odd jobs. Things like that." His voice was casual, but the tension in his shoulders told of some unearthed secrets. Sherlock opened his mouth, about to pry as he _always _did when a puzzle presented itself, but found his cocaine-addled mind logically shutting him down. _No, let him keep his secrets_.

Sherlock turned back to the economics textbooks and let the subject drop. He had work to do if he was going to get enough cocaine to get him through the next few days, and Victor didn't appear in the mood for talking anymore. Victor was sitting in the chair across from him, staring at the book pages without really reading anything (obvious by the lack of eye movement).

Sherlock let him be. It was the least he could do for the man who had just given him his white mistress.

It was almost dawn when Sherlock and Victor finished their work, having only topped off once around 2 am. As the boys exited the library they both lit cigarettes, blowing out the smoke towards the hint of color on the daybreak horizon. Through his coke-calm Sherlock realized that in a strangely sentimental way, he enjoyed the company. Victor blew out a smoke ring beside him before turning, rubbing his eyes. He looked as if he were coming down.

"Thanks for the aspirin," Sherlock quietly mumbled. It felt appropriate to say, somehow.

"No problem. Like I said, I've been there and know it ain't pretty." Victor spoke in a street tone that held just the hint of upper class lilt. The sweater behind the leather.

"No. No, it's not," Sherlock admitted. He turned towards the blond, blowing out another puff of nicotine and chemicals. Victor was watching the pinkish-purple color rising over the trees and houses in the background, a feral smile on his wild face. Sherlock was struck once more with a plethora of questions about the man, and was once again discouraged that he could find no hint at answers in the young man, just a sort of intoxicating sense of curiosity. Victor was wild, restless, and Sherlock found himself magnetically pulled towards him. He blinked and turned away as he realized he'd been staring at his companion for what was probably an unnatural length of time.

"I should be heading off," Sherlock mumbled, feeling uncomfortable. Maybe it was because the bulk of his cocaine high was wearing off or because he suddenly found himself confused and wary of the present situation, but he needed to remove himself, needed the distance.

Victor nodded slowly, still watching the horizon intently. He dropped his dying cigarette on the ground, stomping on it lightly. "Sure thing, mate."

Sherlock turned to go, swirling his peacoat behind him when Victor interrupted. "Hold up, some friends and I may be going to a club this weekend. Good music and a good chance to get some better blow than they've got on campus. You're welcome to join if you haven't got anything to do."

"I haven't," Sherlock replied before he was entirely conscious of his desire to accept the invite. _Wasn't cocaine supposed to make things easier to understand?_

"Cool. Catch you around, then."

With that, Victor turned to stalk off, lighting another cigarette on his way.

Sherlock returned to his dorm. He wasn't in the least bit tired, and since he didn't presently have any chemicals available for experiments after the campus police swept his room and all his schoolwork was done, he found himself digging his violin out from under his bed.

He wasn't entirely sure where the swelling and sweet melody he was playing came from, but it fit the moment somehow. As the first rays of sunlight hit the floor of Sherlock's room he played, his fingers nimbly leaping across the strings.

* * *

><p>The club smelled of cigarettes laced with weed, sweat, and the scent of cheap booze. The multi-colored lights flashed across the floor that was packed with young men and women, teeth glowing macabrely under the piercing black light. Glow sticks were being thrown through the air and a man with light up gloves weaved his way past, waving his hands around in an entrancing spiral. The music pulsating through the speakers was some remix of an old punk song that Sherlock had remembered hearing before.<p>

If Sherlock hadn't snorted two lines before entering, he was sure he would have had a breakdown. Even with the cocaine in his capillaries, he felt slightly nauseated by the overwhelming stimuli in the room. The lights particularly hurt his dilated pupils. He was aware that in his youth this sort of scene would have led him to some sort of attack, scratching at his skin or banging his head to give him some sense of stability. Not anymore, though, his drug was keeping him calm, protecting him. He felt very safe.

Victor stood next to him, wearing his usual studded leather jacket and ragged jeans. His pupils matched Sherlock's as he stared around, grinning wickedly.

"Good turn out tonight. Now, we've got to find Gloria. She'll be around here somewhere."

Sherlock had no clue who Gloria was, but wasn't in the mood for standing alone in a strange club, so he hurried after Victor who was blazing a trail through the crowd. The blonde moved to the back, opening an exit door and stepping out into the dirty street just outside. _Leaving so soon? _Not that Sherlock was particularly thrilled with the scene, but if he was going to experience new things he wanted to do it fully. All or nothing.

As Sherlock stepped out into the cool air outside, he saw Victor caught in a vigorous embrace. The young woman hugging him stepped back and Sherlock was able to take a closer look. She was willowy and tall with short brown hair that spiked around her ears and deep brown eyes. Dressed in black jeans and an artfully torn black t-shirt that just hinted at her midriff and jauntily smoking a cigarette (was that a cigarette?), the girl fit the underground scene he had walked into. She grinned towards Victor, pulling the cigarette (needed more data on that one) out of her mouth.

"Hey Vic, wasn't sure when you would be turning up."

"I knew you'd be out here smoking. You're headed towards early death by lung cancer, Gloria, you best slow down."

"I only smoke when it's worth my while," she replied, placing a hand on her tiny hip and pulling another drag. "This joint is definitely worth my while."

"H-bomb?" Victor asked.

Gloria smiled in wicked affirmation and took another hit. "You're welcome to try. You or you friend." She motioned towards Sherlock, offering out the cigarette or whatever it was. Sherlock wasn't too sure what an h-bomb was, actually. Didn't want to ruin his cocaine high with what smelled for all purposes like weed though.

Victor shook his head. "Don't like mixing my weed and heroin, love. You've asked before."

Gloria shrugged. "I'll keep asking anyways. Do you want to try?" Her brown eyes turned towards Sherlock.

Sherlock quickly shook his head. That sounded like the _worst _possible combination; weed and opiates, could she be serious? Who in their right mind would want that? Gloria seemed to be enjoying it though. She held out a lazy hand to him, swaying slightly on the spot at the sudden movement.

"Gloria Scott," she said.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock intoned, quickly shaking her spindly hand.

"Why have I heard that name before?"

"He's the Oxford bloke who jumped out of a building," Victor butted in, lighting up as he said so.

Gloria's eyes lit up in recognition. "Ah yes, I _have_ heard of you. Quite the campus celebrity these days."

Sherlock scowled, not even attempting to hide his disdain. "Oxford student, are you?" he commented rudely, tossing up walls around him in his usual defense.

Gloria smirked at the jab, but didn't take the bait. "Not presently." She turned back to Victor, swiping a choppy piece of hair away from her face. The movement seemed to throw her off a bit. "So are we going to dance or just stand around smoking?"

"Dancing sounds good. You coming Sherlock?"

The next few hours were absolutely surreal. It probably didn't help that Victor had ordered everyone a round of shots and then insisted on taking a shot on the hour every hour for the rest of the night. It wasn't exactly Sherlock's cup of tea, and the harsh liquid reminded him of chemical experiments as he it burned down his esophagus, but he was enjoying himself nonetheless, despite the fact that the world was swirling more and more and he found himself more and more unstable as the night went on.

They had met up with a burly man named Bruce late in the night. Gloria and Victor had been dancing for most of that time while Sherlock watched idly on the edge of the dance floor. Human interaction was so intriguing sometimes; it was easier to watch from afar than to participate, especially since he didn't know the rules (his altered state didn't help that much either). Gloria and Victor seemed to match each other, spinning and moving fluidly. At one point they had been leisurely snogging on the dance floor, which upset Sherlock for some unacknowledged reason. Yet, when Bruce showed up, Gloria had immediately detached from Victor and had started dancing with the other man. Victor grinned, looking around for Sherlock. When he caught him standing at the corner, he stalked over. The lights flashing on the floor made his blonde hair almost translucent and the colors etched onto his face gave him an ethereal glow.

"Having fun, mate?"

Sherlock nodded. He _was _having fun. It was so _interesting _watching the other humans around him interacting with each other without paying him any mind nor giving him any negative attention.

Victor checked his watch before grabbing onto Sherlock's arm. The blond led him over to the bar without protest, ordering another round of shots. He picked up one of the glasses, filled to the brim with a bright blue liquid. Sherlock took the other, mentally preparing himself for the burn of pure ethanol.

"Almost four a.m., got to take another," Victor was saying before he cocked back the glass and slid the shot down his throat. He slammed the shot glass on the table as he finished. Sherlock downed his in a single gulp as well. He could feel the buzz from the alcohol almost instantly, which was probably good because he'd begun coming down from coke about an hour or so ago. The vodka was definitely helping keep some of the crashing symptoms at bay, at least until he could do some more.

"So you and Gloria, are you… together?" Sherlock asked. He attempted to make the question sound innocent, matching his intonation to how any other _normal _person would ask their friend about their romantic life. If there was a hint of jealousy in there, though, Victor didn't seem to notice.

"We've hooked up a few times before, but it's nothing serious. We're mostly just friends with some benefits on the side." Victor shrugged, checking his watch.

The relief and confusion that swept over the scientist was shocking in its intensity. Sherlock nodded because he felt it was the appropriate response, though he didn't quite understand what Victor had meant. It was obvious that the boy had been with more people than himself, you didn't need to be a deductive genius to see that (also, when your romantic experience is nil, anyone can be better than you). Victor also had a fairly strong reputation for being a player of both courts at uni. Victor desired sex, or at least some sort of partnership, from anyone, male or female.

Sherlock himself had never felt that desire with more than a small handful of people, each of them unreciprocated. There had been the smart, witty girl in his youth with the short hair who had been the only one nice to him on the playground (which was truthfully, the only reason he'd liked her), and a handful of boys who had physically intrigued him in secondary school.

Though he could honestly say nobody to date intrigued him as much as the blond walking beside him.

There was just something about Victor, something Sherlock just didn't quite understand. A part of him that for all Sherlock's genius, he just could not seem to figure out. Sherlock was a scientist, good at breaking things down into basic particles and components and then using logic to restructure a whole, tangible something out of the smaller parts. Yet no matter how much Sherlock ruminated on Victor Trevor, there were still some parts that were a mystery, some sections of the man that despite all his deduction and his reasoning, Sherlock couldn't figure out. It was infuriating and invigorating. The mystery was addictive and Sherlock wanted more.

"Are we going to stay here until dawn, or is there some other plans in the works?" Sherlock asked, more out of curiosity than a true desire to leave. It was warm and interesting; with enough stimuli to keep his mind busy, and with the combination of drugs and alcohol he was enjoying not being overwhelmed by everything around him for once.

Victor's feral grin reflected in the dim, colored lights. "Why, you want to go somewhere else, Sherl?"

_Sherl? When had that become his nickname? _He didn't mind it, though, so he let the petname slide. Maybe tomorrow he'd correct Victor.

"Why not, _Vic_," he tossed back, feeling the right side of his face twisting into a half-smile.

"As you wish."

* * *

><p>Victor glanced over at the dark-haired boy next to him, lighting up a cigarette as they exited the train towards Oxford. He too lit a fag, the inhalation feeling more natural than breathing in fresh air. He should probably slow down with these things, knew it was the healthier option, but some side of him loved even this simple dance with danger. Yeah, he may get lung cancer, but when you didn't think you'd make it past thirty anyways the way things were going, it didn't really matter, did it?<p>

Sherlock was silent, had been since they'd left the club. He had claimed to enjoy himself, and Victor knew intuitively that he had, even if he hadn't stepped one foot on the dance floor. That wasn't his way, it seemed, more of an observer than a doer. Except when it came to drugs, he supposed. Sherlock was always down for that.

"You've been quiet for awhile, Sherlock. Crashing or something?" Victor's drugs had worn off a couple hours ago, and he knew that his friends had as well. Sherlock shook his head, taking another drag.

"No. Well, yes, but no. I was just thinking."

"About what."

"About you, actually."

The admission was earnest, and said in such an innocent way Victor had to crack a grin. "Oh yeah, what about me?"

"Tonight, are your nights always like this? Full of girls and parties and drugs?"

"A lot of them are. Though sometimes I swap out the girls for some blokes. And then there are those really wild nights when I drag race. If you think tonight was exciting you haven't seen anything, mate." He wasn't bragging, wasn't saying these things to make himself seem edgy or cool. It was just what he did, and there was no use denying it. People spoke about their passions, and adventure just happened to be Victor's.

"You like danger." It wasn't a question. Victor turned to his dark-haired companion, who looked back at him with piercing grey eyes even in the dim light.

"I do," he admitted.

"Why?"

Victor blew out a puff of smoke, sighing slightly as he searched around for the right words. "It freezes things, I guess, makes everything suddenly clear, makes it all stand still. When there's a possibility that you might die so much more seems worth it. I dunno, it just slows everything down."

The answer seemed to resonate within his companion. The look he gave him was more emotional than Victor had ever seen the usually cold chemist. It was sympathetic and honest, and if Victor was going to admit it he felt a tug somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

"You know you've got a reputation on campus."

"I know I have."

"They say you sleep around."

"I do."

"They say you'll sleep with just about anyone."

Victor laughed. "Just about. I have to like them, though. They've got to grab me. I may have low standards but I still have some."

"And that's all you do, you just sleep with them. That's it. Done."

"That's been my history, yes."

Sherlock nodded, growing silent. Victor looked over at the dark haired young man. The lights from the streetlamps made his edged cheekbones seem even more sunken in, that with the malnourished junkie look he was sporting. He appeared rigid and unbending, firm and cold, yet Victor knew there was a fire underneath that exterior. Nobody without that flame would jump out of a window for science or snort as much cocaine as Sherlock did. He was dangerous and edgy, all layered up in a scientific enigma. It was absolutely enthralling. Victor could almost taste the metallic tang on his tongue, the one that felt like he'd licked a galvanized copper penny, the one that let him know that he was _excited _and that there was adrenaline pumping through his veins. Victor wanted to melt that ice and get to the _fire _inside his companion, wanted to watch those flames dance. He hadn't felt this invigorated by another person in what felt like ages. His boredom was forgotten for the moment.

They were nearing Victor's dorm now. As they approached the door, Victor stamped out his cigarette and turned to Sherlock.

"You want to come in for a bit, Sherl? I know you won't be sleeping from the blow, and we could top up if you want." If he knew the young man at all, he knew that Sherlock couldn't resist a free high. Not that Victor was using drugs to get his way, that would be altogether dirty, but he was using his cards in his favor.

"That sounds good, actually."

Victor led them through the door and down the hall, unlocking his single with the keys in his back pocket. He motioned for Sherlock to enter then closed the door behind them. No sooner had he shut the door but he advanced towards the lanky young man, pulling him closer into his aggressive yet still soft kiss. They held it for a moment before Sherlock gently pushed away. It wasn't the kind of push that alerted Victor and told him he was out of line. It was just out of shock.

"Wha'?" his companion mumbled, his eyes wide.

"I told you, Sherlock, I like who I like. You're one of those people."

Sherlock seemed to go distant in the eyes for a second as if he was mentally processing what had just happened, though even as he went still his body seemed to have a mind of its own. In moments Victor's leather jacket and Sherlock's pea coat were lying on the floor, and Sherlock was sporting a feral grin, looking etched in the scant light, his alabaster skin glowing and his dark hair etching sharp shadows on his face. He looked _dangerous _and _delicious_.

"You interest me, Victor Trevor," he intoned in his low baritone. "You are definitely _not _boring."

Victor offered him some blow on his room key, as he placed some of the powder in the crook of his own thumb and forefinger. After they'd both snorted, their lips met once more.

The sun rose on two boys lying in bed, smoking cigarettes despite building codes, looking peaceful, high, but altogether happy.


End file.
